


Decaf

by samdrake



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, F/M, Pre-Hope County
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 11:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16218428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samdrake/pseuds/samdrake
Summary: He walks into your cafe every day you’re there, sits down at the same spot, and orders the same thing. You know absolutely nothing about him, but something about him leaves you wanting to know everything. (Set before Joseph finds Jacob, way before Hope County/the events of Far Cry 5)





	Decaf

It’s the same routine every day. Wake up, shower, and be at work by 9am. You ask around for a clean apron because you can never seem to remember one when you’re running out the door, and then buy a drink before clocking in. Your regulars are the biggest part of your routine. One of your regulars, a publicist who always walks through the door minutes after you arrive, only trusts you with his caramel macchiato. You serve the sweet old lady always reading a book in the corner a hot chocolate and a chocolate muffin, because well, the lady has to her chocolate. And then there’s the couple who always comes in during the lunch rush, argues about what they want while holding up the line, and then sit in each other’s arms on the couch with no care in the world.

It’s the same routine every day. The same customers, the same orders. You knew everything about that coffee shop except for one customer. He comes in every weekday (one time you covered a weekend shift, and he never showed). He orders a black coffee every time and has the exact change for it - all in change, which you stopped counting a while ago. He sits right at the barista’s table, but he doesn’t say much, especially now that you’ve memorized his simple order. He always leaves two quarters somewhere on the table where only you could grab it as a tip.

Every time he comes in, you make up a story about him in your head. Different theories swirl through your mind every day about who he is. His body is decorated completely in burn marks and scars, which led you to believe he either served in the war or got those in a serious injury. The dog tags always around his neck made you believe the first one. He comes in at random times throughout the day, and usually wears the same outfit, so you believe he’s either jobless or he works at night and puts little value on style. One of your coworkers said he looks like a serial killer with the hots for you. Another one of them jokingly said he looks like a cult leader. You weren’t a fan of either of those theories.

He comes in at 10am today. You see him walk through the door and immediately grab a white mug for his coffee. He nods at you but says nothing as he sits down. When you go to pour his coffee, you accidentally reach for the decaf pot over the regular brew.

You look up at him. He’s looking up at the artwork and photos on the wall in front of him. His icy blue eyes (and you  _definitely_  weren’t getting lost in his eyes, definitely not) were accompanied by gray bags garnished beneath. His eyelids looked heavy to hold. It didn’t take a stranger, or even his regular barista to figure out that he was exhausted.

You grab the decaf pot anyways and switch his regular black coffee with decaf.

As you slid his drink over, he exchanged a crumpled up copy of a smile and took a sip. His eyes immediately shifted to the liquid in his cup, noting the slightly different taste from a drink he wasn’t used to. He looked up and raised a brow at you, who was already watching and waiting for a reaction, hoping to  _God_  he wasn’t the type of customer to throw their coffee across the room when their order is wrong.

You replied with a warm smile. And for the first time since he first walked through that door months ago, he smiled back at you.

He took his time with his drink. When he was done, he began to rummage through his pant pockets for $1.25.

“It’s on the house,” you said, grabbing his empty cup. 

A flush crept on his face, giving you a once-over and nodding as a form of a thank you. You suppose that would do, though you couldn’t deny that you wanted to hear his voice this time. He still left you a tip - fifty cents, which you would use to buy a gumball at the candy store on the way home - before walking out the door.

* * *

 

Twelve hours later and you can nearly feel your legs buckle beneath you, the type of pain that only fast food and customer service workers can understand. All of your co-workers left to go home and enjoy their nights, leaving you alone to close the shop as stars quickly approached to light up the night. You had to note the tranquility and beauty of it, even from the windows of your tiny cafe.

You heard the bell above the door ring in front of you. “I’m sorry, we’re closed,” was all you said, continuing to count the money in the register.

“The sign on the door says you close at 9:00, and it’s 8:57,” the voice, though you haven’t heard it in a while, was all too familiar. You looked up to see  _him_. “You got any decaf left?”

You closed the register, grabbed a cup and began pouring his coffee, unable to hide the grin on your face. “D… did you just make that noise? You know, you have a nice voice, when you’re actually using it…”

He smiled at that and sat down, taking a small sip of his drink. He looked up and caught you staring him, immediately making your cheeks turn red in embarrassment.

“Do I have something on my face, sweetheart?”

“No, it’s just… you’ve never told me your name before, you know.”

He nodded and set his cup down. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

You tapped at your name tag on your apron. He sucked at the bottom of his lip and then turned it into a shy smile. “Jacob.”

“Well, Jacob…” you huffed. “Your caffeine intake can’t be healthy.”

“Is that so, doctor?”

“Just a thought.”

He took another sip. “I think I’ll stick to decaf, actually.”


End file.
